Sex and the Chi-ty: Jet Lag Edition

By: Cathy Campo, Co-Editor-in-Chief

They say you don’t really know someone until you travel with them.

Which made me wonder: if you meet a man in Taipei, gamble together in Macau, wander the misty lantern-lit hills of Jiufen, and then drag him through two weeks in Japan: is that romance—or a live-action compatibility test?

On our first date, we shut down an Italian restaurant in Chicago. We talked for hours about where we’d been and where we wanted to go. I’ve technically been to one more country than he has. He insists he wins because he’s two years younger.

Travel isn’t just something we like. It’s foundational to us both and how we understand ourselves. So when we decided to meet in Taiwan—him flying in from the U.S., bravely wrestling a 13-hour time difference—it felt like more than just another trip.

There is something cinematic about first spotting the boyfriend you haven’t seen in six weeks in a foreign country. It’s all swelling music and slow motion. It’s also slightly less glamorous when he looks like he hasn’t slept since the previous fiscal quarter.

He powered through anyway. Night markets. Soup dumplings. He even managed some days working remotely. I had been to both Taiwan and Hong Kong before, which meant I had opinions. And a plan. And a backup plan. And a minute-by-minute itinerary I did not technically show him but that absolutely existed.

He, on the other hand, was just happy to be there.

That’s when I realized: travel exposes your operating system. He is “let’s see what happens.” I am “what happens has already been color-coded.”

Exploring Jiufen, Taiwan

In Jiufen—the hillside Taiwanese village that inspired Studio Ghibli's film Spirited Away—lanterns glowed through the mist and tea houses clung to cliffs. It felt magical, almost otherworldly. And yet, my biggest anxiety wasn’t spiritual. It was logistical. If we lingered too long at one shop, we might miss the bus. If we missed the bus, the day’s timing would unravel. If the timing unraveled… what did that say about us?

Meanwhile, he was breathing in the mountain air, sipping his tea calmly, fully unbothered by the concept of “schedule drift.”

Somewhere between the fog and the staircases, I felt the tiniest crack in my belief that perfect planning was the only way to feel secure. He wasn’t stressed. The world wasn’t ending. The bus, as it turns out, was not the sole pillar holding up our relationship. (Nor was it the sole mode of transportation back; he reminded me Uber exists.)

Then there was Macau. We did what you do in Macau—we gambled. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to have fun.

We celebrated Lunar New Year in Hong Kong, surrounded by traditions that weren’t ours but that we felt lucky to witness. We celebrated Valentine’s Day there too, where it isn’t quite the rose-petal production it is back home (but he still made it that way anyway).

Now we’re in our second week together in Japan where I’ve been holed up for the past quarter. He wakes up early to work out, disciplined and steady, while I wake up already mentally boarding the first train of the day (I swear I’d be at the gym with him too, but I’ve been sidelined by an ankle sprain). I’ve been living here now for two months. I know what I want to show him. I want it to be perfect.

Chowing down on wagyu sliders in Tokyo

Somewhere between bullet trains and konbini snacks, we’ve been negotiating the map. He slows me down in ways that feel less like obstruction and more like expansion. I keep us moving in ways that feel less like control and more like care. The things that could irritate—his flexibility, my rigidity—start to look more like balance.

Travel magnifies everything. Fatigue. Hunger. Differences in tempo. But it also magnifies kindness and patience.

Lying next to him at night, I couldn’t help but wonder: When you’ve always defined yourself by independence and a passport full of stamps, what does it mean to start building an itinerary for two?

Maybe the real gamble wasn’t in Macau. Maybe it was in believing that someone else could fit into a life that’s always been carefully plotted.

And maybe the most romantic thing isn’t shutting down a restaurant on your first date. It’s learning how to share the map—even when one of you insists on printing it out in advance.

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